


Maybe Next Time

by mcicioni



Category: Per qualche dollaro in più | For A Few Dollars More (1965)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 20:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9921269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: "In Agua Caliente you said,Maybe next time. Now is next time."





	

It would get cold soon, but heat was still rising from the rocks and the sand and seeping into Mortimer’s boots, around the knot of his tie, under his black broadcloth jacket. He squinted into the setting sun and glanced at the road stretching before him, flat and dusty, the desert behind him, bare grey hills ahead. He was tired, but he needed to ride alone, in silence. He was as empty as a discharged gun, as spent as his Buntline Special, after Indio had shot it out of his hand. And he wouldn’t be riding away if his partner – former partner – hadn’t been around to offer unsolicited help. A man whose name he’d never even bothered to ask, Mortimer reflected with pointless regret. He never asked him how he got his nickname, where he’d been in the war, how he’d got into their profession. But, as he himself had said on the night they’d met, _the question isn’t indiscreet, but the answer could be_.

He rode slowly for about three hours, then stopped near a narrow creek winding around a cluster of boulders. He built a fire, brewed coffee, refilled both his canteens, took a pouch of jerky out of his saddlebags, chewed pensively. One of his back teeth was broken, courtesy of Niño; well, Niño had paid for it, although not at his hands, or his ex-partner’s. A gust of night desert wind made him get up, get the blanket behind his saddle, wrap it around his shoulders. The chill outside subsided, but there was a bone-deep chill inside him, something he was familiar with, which had stayed with him for six years. He sighed, lit his pipe, felt the comforting weight of his Remington derringer inside his right sleeve and considered his immediate options. He could get to El Paso around noon, have his Buntline repaired, have a bath and a shave. Unless the El Paso sheriff set eyes on him and held him responsible for the bank getting blown up and over a hundred thousand dollars of investors’ money disappearing without trace. 

He wondered where his ex-partner was now. Probably plodding along with his slow-moving farm cart loaded with bodies, reins firmly held in his hands, long slim legs spread wide, feet resting against the buckboard. Riding towards a safe future as a rancher, maybe a wife, children. He blinked, frowned, pushed all foolish speculations aside. 

_Colonel, were you ever young? Yeah, and just as reckless as you. Then one day something happened that made life very precious to me_. He pulled out the two identical watches, his thumb caressing Ellen’s smiling face. Ellen, the little sister he had brought up after diphteria took both their parents. Who looked up to him and could twist him around her little finger. Who had fallen in love with one of his lieutenants and had survived the devastations of the war, waiting for both the men she loved to come back to her once it was over. And they had, and she had beamed through her modest wedding in what was left of the Mortimer plantation, Douglas walking her up the aisle and Brent walking her down it, their lives ahead of them. For all of five months, until they met Indio. Now that they’d been avenged, Mortimer had no hope that they could _rest in peace_ , in some _better place_. There was nothing left of them, nothing anywhere except two gravestones and his memories. He’d sold the plantation the day after their funeral, and a week later he had left South Carolina and started hunting.

And now, six years later, it was all over. 

_And our partnership?_ The moment of leave-taking flashed before his eyes, his ex-partner’s face a little disappointed, his voice a little wistful, the long-lashed eyes darkening. _Maybe next time_ , Mortimer had answered with a smile. They both knew it was a lie. Mortimer’s life as a hunter of men was over, but he would always bear the weight of what those six years had done to him – the coldness with which he assessed people, the fear and contempt he saw in the eyes of sheriffs, bartenders, train conductors and anyone else who came near him. He was no longer able to get close to another human being, to do something for someone else. The North Carolina Military Institute in Charlotte had written to him a couple of times, offering him a job as a weapons and strategy instructor, and he had never answered. He smirked as he imagined himself instructing the sons and grandsons of former Confederate officers in the most effective ways of using acid to open safes, or of opening third eyes in the faces of wanted men. 

He did not want or hope for anything. He did, however, have a way out: ride to some place remote and restful, preferably with some running water and some trees, and then put his derringer into his mouth. Not yet. But the option was always there, comforting in a strange way. He shivered, put the watches back into his pocket, put a few more pieces of wood onto the fire and closed his eyes.

When, in the morning, he rode into El Paso, he saw that the town was beginning to recover from the robbery. The bank was still a heap of rubble, but the streets were full of bustling people, and churches, shops, saloons and hotels seemed to be open and operative. The barber pulled his broken tooth quickly and with relatively little pain; the gun shop owner told him that his Buntline would be back in working order by the next morning; and the hotel where he had stayed the previous time had a free room facing the street. He slept through the day and woke up in the early evening, his body reminding him that it hadn’t been bathed and fed properly for several days, and almost fifty years’ habits of discipline reminding him that as long as he was alive he had a duty to keep clean, shaved and fed.

He sighed as he strolled into a saloon, politely refused to get acquainted with one of its girls, sat down – force of habit making him choose a seat against a wall, with full view of the batwing doors – and ordered fried eggs, potatoes and a drink. While he was wondering whether he’d mind less staying in the saloon or going back to his room and cleaning his guns, he saw the doors being pushed inwards, gently, almost tentatively.

The two people who walked in were clearly outsiders. Their clothes – the man’s worn velvet jacket and wide corduroy trousers, the woman’s homespun black shawl and blue flared skirt – were unusual. The way they looked around clearly showed that, while not totally unfamiliar with saloons, they still found them hard to make sense of. Mortimer focused again on the woman, and it was as if a giant hand had squeezed his guts: her loosely-tied black curls, youthful round cheeks and dark eyes were almost identical to those of the picture in his watches. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths while he watched the man steer her towards the counter, where the bartender was wiping glasses.

“Good evening, sir.” The man spoke with a heavy accent; not Spanish, Mortimer thought, but something like it. “Please, can you tell us where we can find cattlemen around here. We have three bulls to sell.”

“Have you now,” sneered a heavy-set man with a squint. The sarcasm was apparently lost on the foreigners. So was the fact that a couple of barflies and half a dozen farmhands had gathered around them, sniggering.

“You won’t need no drovers, just whistle and the bulls’ll follow ya.” “No they won’t, American bulls only understand American.” 

“We’re feeling generous. We’ll give you two dollars apiece,” a slim young drover finally offered, straight-faced. “Bulls are common as dirt around here, and that’s why they’re dirt-cheap.”

“No.” The woman was polite but firm, her accent better than the man’s. “The …” she opened her reticule, found a small notebook, leafed through it. “The going price is fifty dollars each.”

“So your ladyfriend wants to sell them bulls, huh?” This was a blond beanpole, guffawing at his own wit. “You’re givin her enough, right?” The woman lowered her eyes, her cheeks crimson. The man paused for a moment, his brow knitting, then squared his broad shoulders and faced the beanpole.

“These are bad words about my wife. Take them back.”

The woman’s hand tightened on his arm, in silent appeal. He shrugged it off: “Take them back, I say.”

“Make me.” The beanpole opened his jacket, exhibiting a Colt 45 in a worn holster, and laughed out loud; the man’s fist came up, driving against the beanpole’s jaw, wiping out the laugh, sending him reeling against the bar. The woman’s hand slipped into a pocket and came out holding a small jack-knife. She stood beside her man, silent, white-faced and shaking, her weapon held tightly in her hand, but her eyes were darting desperately across the room; they stopped on Mortimer, flashed a cry for help at him.

In one second Mortimer thought of Ellen, weighed up the disproportionate odds, dismissed them, got to his feet and moved to stand beside the couple.

“I believe there’s something you’d like to say to these people,” he said mildly, eyes locked onto the beanpole’s.

The beanpole looked him over, from the flat crown of his hat to his boots, taking in the absence of holsters and sidearms. “I don’t believe there is,” he sneered, in a laughable attempt to imitate Mortimer’s faint Southern accent. And froze immediately afterwards, eyes glazing as he stared at the derringer that had materialised in Mortimer’s hand, pointing straight at his belly button.

“That pop-gun of yours holds just one round,” he blustered.

“It’s enough,” Mortimer said very softly.

“And when you’ve used it, you’ll have to deal with the rest of us,” the heavy-set man pointed out almost cheerfully. Mortimer ignored him, eyes and derringer levelled at the beanpole.

“Right,” the heavy-set man said, his hand darting towards his holster.

“Wrong,” said a soft voice from the saloon doors, behind Mortimer, and two shots boomed almost simultaneously, and the heavy-set man collapsed to the floor, vomiting profanities and clutching his shattered right forearm.

Mortimer kept his derringer trained on the men at the bar until they decided to attend to their friend and carry him out of the saloon. Then he slowly turned around. Monco had re-holstered his Colt and was pulling his poncho down over his body. He gave Mortimer a long, unsmiling look.

“You said that you were reckless as a young man,” he stated drily. “Well, Colonel, you’re older, but not much wiser.”

Mortimer decided that challenges and questions could wait a while, looked at the two foreigners – the woman still pale and shaking, the man cautiously relieved – and waved them towards his table. After trading glances, they nodded acceptance. Monco followed them, slowly and wordlessly. Mortimer acquired a bottle and four glasses and poured three large drinks for the men and a smaller one for the woman.

“Thank you,” the woman said before sitting down, with something resembling Ellen’s easy grace.

“I am Filippo Bertozzi.” The man stretched out a large, calloused hand. He was about thirty, had wide, serious blue eyes and an untidy mop of straw-coloured hair. “My wife Lisa.” A short pause. “We come from Italy. We thank you.”

Mortimer shook the proffered hand and tipped his hat to Mrs Bertozzi. “Douglas Mortimer.” They turned towards Monco, but he just grabbed a chair, sat down and muttered, “I’m his partner.” 

“We are not ranchers.” Lisa’s English was careful, striving for accuracy. “But my husband has worked with cattle in Italy, as a _buttero_.” She coloured, found her notebook, consulted it. “A buffalo drover. In the … ” she concentrated, searching for the right word, found it, “swamps of the Maremma.”

“And why did you leave Italy to come here?” 

She took a small, cautious sip. “Poverty and illness. The Maremma is a bad land, all marshes. Good only for cattle and mosquitoes.”

“Malaria,” Filippo spat out. “Either you die of hunger, or you die of the malaria.”

“Why did you come all the way to Texas?”

“My father’s brother,” Lisa explained. “He came to Texas twenty years ago. He bought land in a valley in the desert. Built water tanks, planted vines. He wrote to us, Come, I am ill, I want you to have my land when I have gone. He sent a little money to help us travel.”

“We sell all we have to pay for travel.” Filippo helped himself to another drink. “We take a ship, then trains, stages. We walk. We take wrong roads, find wrong addresses. We work, where we can, in farms. It take more than a year to find his place. He is dead. And then the lawyer Caldwell finds us.”

Lisa rummaged in her bag, produced some crumpled sheets of paper. “I can read Italian, I have been to school for four years. But English …” She sighed deeply. “Mr Caldwell said that my uncle never paid many taxes.” She pointed vaguely at the list. “Land tax. Tax on the seeds he brought into America. Tax to build water tanks. Tax to contribute to the Texas Militia. Other taxes. We were his heirs, so we had to pay, or go to jail.”

“The _bastardo_ Caldwell said that our land is just enough to pay all the taxes. He said he will take care of it. And so he give us nothing. Nothing.” Filippo clenched his hands.

Mortimer and Monco exchanged a look. Mortimer frowned at the list, Monco scowled at Mortimer.

“And where do the three bulls come in?” Mortimer asked. 

Filippo eyed him defiantly. “I take them from her uncle’s place. Last night. If we sell them quick, we have money for some taxes, maybe all.” 

Monco shook his head. Mortimer produced his pipe, took a long time lighting it. “Don’t even think of it,” he said firmly around the stem of the pipe. Then he spoke slowly and carefully. “Until all the legal problems are sorted out, the bulls don’t belong to you. And in Texas, cattle thieves are hanged.” From the Bertozzis’ expressions, he saw that the last word had been fully understood.

He moved on to practical matters. “Do you have anywhere to sleep?”

“No. Last night we sleep in a canyon, with the bulls.”

“And the bulls now are …?”

“In a stable. Tonight we spend the night with them.”

Monco shook his head again, at Filippo, at Mortimer, at the whole situation. “No, you won’t. I have money. I’ll pay for a room for you.” With a brief wave of his hand he dismissed their attempt at polite refusal, then gave them a little lopsided grin. “Don’t worry, I came by this money … fairly honestly.”

After seeing the Italians securely installed in a room, and telling them to lock themselves in, they walked back to Mortimer’s hotel, falling into step as easily as if they’d served in the army together, but without exchanging one word. Irritated by his companion’s silence, Mortimer contented himself with a couple of sidelong glances, and asked no questions when Monco followed him in the hotel lobby and up the stairs to his room.

The moment Mortimer closed the door behind them, the other man took off his hat and poncho, threw them onto the bed, and stood facing Mortimer, eyes narrowed, arms hanging down his sides.

“So now you’ve changed your methods,” he spat out. “And you sure as hell won’t make it to fifty if you keep pullin stunts like you did in the saloon.” 

“Oh?” Mortimer took his own hat off, carefully placed it on the hatstand, did the same with his coat. “And you turned up because .. ?”

Monco fished out a cigar, clamped it between his teeth, struck a match on the seat of his pants. “Because I learned from you, old man. I reasoned things out. When you walked out on the partnership, at first I figured you’d had enough of it. You wanted to go off to Carolina or Tierra del Fuego or the North Pole on your own, fine with me.” He puffed on his cigar, and his next words came from a little cloud of smoke. “But then I figured somethin else out. That now your job was done, and you were all alone, with no problems to solve. And so maybe you’d find a way of gettin yourself killed. And that _ain’t_ fine with me.”

“Always jumping to conclusions,” Mortimer said, leaning against the wall and taking out his pipe.

Monco’s fists clenched. “Naturally, when I see a fool with a derringer facin off against half a dozen fools with Colts.”

Mortimer filled his pipe, lit it and got it going, then just stared hard at the other man. “Careful.” 

“Careful, hell.” Monco took the cigar out of his mouth, glared at it, stubbed it out on a bedpost. Frustration radiating out of his body, he was just this side of control, arrogant and defiant; Mortimer looked away, feeling at the same time deeply unsettled and intensely alive, jolted out of weariness and emptiness. 

“Indio’s dead. And,” Monco’s voice softened for a moment, “so’s your sister. But you’re alive, and I’m goin to see to it that you stay that way. Preferably in some place where I am too. So the equal partnership is on again, old man. Startin with these Eyetalians, and then we’ll see.”

He paused for a moment, his eyes meeting Mortimer’s, with a slight smile as well as a residual trace of anger, and then he took hold of Mortimer’s forearm, his thumb stroking it hard through the fine cotton of the shirt sleeve and moving down to stroke the soft skin under the wrist. Mortimer instantly felt a shudder of desire course through his body, unusual, uncontrollable, warm.

“Is this a proposition?” he asked slowly.

The other man nodded. “Fifty-fifty. No tricks.” And without any further words he moved first and fast, just as when he had hit him that night on the road between the two hotels, pushing Mortimer against the wall, unbuckling his belt, undoing buttons, slipping a hand inside, finding what he wanted, making a little satisfied sound as he wrapped his hand around growing hardness. And a flood of memories washed over Mortimer, the experiences and sensations of many years ago – few men, fewer women, few words, all relegated to the back of his mind when he had started his hunt. He pressed the flat of his palm against the front of the other man’s trousers, gratified to find hot hardness, surprised at the apparent lack of underwear, and remembered what it meant to be held and jerked roughly, and to touch someone hungrily, grabbing hold and squeezing. He remembered the mindless pleasure of feeling another man’s body thrusting strongly in his hand, of matching the other’s fast, impatient rhythm, and of shuddering and grunting and bursting with a long sigh, warmth spreading through his body, his fingers briefly caressing the other man’s damp, soft sex. 

He laid a light hand on the nape of Monco’s neck, felt the muscles tense a little, then relax. “Thank you,” he said formally. “That was … pleasant.”

His companion blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “What exactly do you mean by _pleasant_?” he demanded with more than a faint hint of menace. 

“I recall hearing that things are more satisfying if the parties involved are undressed, and in a horizontal position,” Mortimer said straight-faced.

“Yeah.” Matter-of-factly, Monco started unfastening the ties of his sheepskin-lined vest. Mortimer shook his head. “No.” He slid the vest off the other man’s shoulders and slowly unbuttoned the worn blue shirt, feeling a shock of excitement at the sight of the broad, nearly hairless chest, with several reminders of encounters with knives and bullets. He brushed a fingertip over the most recent one, the graze he’d made on Monco’s neck so that Indio wouldn’t suspect him, and it struck him that he’d like to mark Monco in other ways, with his teeth. Maybe next time. And maybe later on they could compare scars and bruises, he thought with a wry smile while Monco was loosening his tie and fumbling with his cufflinks. 

When all their clothes lay at their feet, they faced each other, and for a moment it was as if Mortimer were standing outside himself, observing the two of them. He did not see two men whom circumstances had made into hunters – whoever and whatever they might have been when they wore clothes, right now they were just two naked men, one in his prime, one slightly past it, visibly interested in each other. And then he was back in his body, desire flowing through it, its interest growing under the amused eyes of his partner.

Still facing each other, they lay down, each aware of the other’s movements. This time Mortimer acted first. He pulled himself on top of the other man, straddling him and pinning him to the bed with his weight, and with a satisfied smirk seized both slender wrists in one large hand, aligned their bodies and started thrusting, slowly and deliberately. And then he looked into his companion’s face – eyes half-closed, breath coming faster, teeth biting the full lower lip to keep noises and words from slipping out – and stopped.

The blue-green eyes snapped open. “Run out of steam, old man?”

“No,” Mortimer replied mildly. “But this isn’t a race.”

“And what is it?”

“I’m still thinking on it.” Holding the other man still, he ran his free hand up and down his side, stroking him with long, affectionate caresses, as he had done with the thoroughbreds in the plantation, in another life. And, just like a thoroughbred, Monco bucked suddenly, almost throwing him off; Mortimer stopped him by shifting his weight and sneaking his free hand between their bodies to give the other’s shaft a short, firm squeeze. 

“No tricks, you said,” he warned, looking down at him. “Got somewhere to go?” 

“I ain’t goin nowhere,” Monco said between gritted teeth, and thrust up as strongly as he could, and blind desire took hold of Mortimer’s body and mind, with heat, real heat, running through his body from forehead to toes, as they moved together and gasped and grunted and let go almost at the same time, lost in the shock waves of violent pleasure.

They lay next to each other in silence, recovering their breath and their heartbeat. Monco was the first one to regain a semblance of self-possession, and chuckled at his companion, “Rode hard and put away wet.”And with a long slender finger he wiped sweat away from Mortimer’s forehead and traced his cheekbones, and Mortimer remembered how good it was to be touched with tenderness: a hand travelling along his chest, gently tugging the curls, stroking the sticky spots on his belly and stopping for a friendly pat to his now irreparably soft sex.

Then, lazily and approvingly, Monco drawled, “Not _that_ old.”

Mortimer managed to land a sharp swat on the naked buttock closest to him before admitting, “Well, this …” and he made a vague gesture to encompass them, the bed, and the clothes scattered every which way, “could be seen as a compliment to your attractions.” And Monco flashed a smile at him, a real smile, open and happy, which crinkled the corners of his eyes and lit up his face. Mortimer felt a pang of regret for the years and the experiences that had transformed the boy Monco must have been into the guarded man who wouldn’t even reveal his given name. But going back was impossible, everything a man had been and done, everyone he had loved or killed, stayed with him: all you could do was cross your fingers and sometimes, maybe, go forward in another direction. Alone, if you had to; with a friend, if you were lucky.

He laid a light hand on Monco’s sweaty shoulder, glad to see the green-blue eyes turn towards him, calm and friendly. “Let’s get some sleep. We have to make some plans first thing in the morning.”

Monco poked him in the ribs, not too hard: “One on the inside, one on the outside. Whatever inside and outside _are_ around here.”

* * * * * *

They collected Lisa and Filippo, bought them breakfast and answered their anxious questions.

“Ma’am, you stay here and take care.” Mortimer bowed lightly from the waist. “And keep that knife in your pocket unless you’re fightin for your life,” Monco added, voice stern, eyes gentle. Filippo was alert, raring to go; Monco clapped his shoulder and informed him that the two of them would be taking the bulls back to the vineyard, and then would be paying a visit to the lawyer.

“Please be careful,” Lisa said, concerned but composed. Then she turned to Mortimer: “And what will you do?”

He smiled reassuringly. “I’ll be back before dark. We can all meet for dinner.” He stopped at the telegraph office to send a telegram, collected his gun from the gun shop while waiting for the reply, and galloped off.

He was back by late afternoon, considerably dustier than when he had set out, escorting a buggy driven by an equally dusty elderly man. The man and the buggy went towards the livery stable, Mortimer dismounted in front of the sheriff’s office. Inside it was crowded. Lisa Bertozzi was sitting on a chair, her husband was beside her, with one eye swollen shut. Monco, with an unlit cigar in his mouth and a purplish bruise on his jaw, was straddling another chair by the cells, which contained three battered and subdued men in cheap suits and one tall man in a dark expensive suit, white shirt and string tie, with a bandaged hand. The sheriff and a deputy were talking together, casting wary glances at all their guests.

Mortimer nodded a greeting to his friends and addressed the sheriff: “The circuit judge’ll be here as soon as he has stabled his horse and buggy. His name’s Hollister.”

“Fair-minded man,” said the sheriff approvingly. They waited in silence for Judge Hollister to join them.

“The hearing will be tomorrow,” Hollister informed them, accepting the sheriff’s invitation to make use of his desk and chair. “But I’d appreciate a short preliminary account.”

“Judge, meet Mr Caldwell, attorney at law,” Monco drawled, pointing to the man with the bandaged hand. “He forged those tax demands, here’s his signed confession. Oh, and he hurt his wrist while trying to get a gun from a drawer.”

The judge raised an eyebrow, but did not enquire further. “And are there any other papers I should inspect?”

Monco nodded. “Here’s her uncle’s will and all his accounts and papers. Caldwell kept them in his safe.” 

The judge glanced in the direction of the cells. “And who are the other three gentlemen, and what happened to them?”

The answer came, fairly respectfully, from Filippo Bertozzi. “They help the lawyer, they try to kick us out. So they fall down the stairs.”

“There ain’t no stairs in Mr Caldwell’s office,” came an indignant voice from the cells. 

Filippo shrugged, “Well, something like that.”

The judge appeared to have developed a headache. “All right. Sheriff, I need sworn statements from everybody. If the statements are contradictory,” he looked sternly at Filippo and at the men in the cells, “I want to know why. Hearing’s at eight sharp tomorrow morning. Since there’s no courtroom, we’ll convene in the schoolroom.” He sighed deeply and turned to Mortimer. “Colonel, will you join me for dinner?”

* * * *

Light was seeping from under the door of Mortimer’s hotel room. He turned the key with his left hand, the right hand on the grip of his Buntline.

“How was the dinner?” Monco was sitting in a chair, feet propped up on the table, unlit cigar in his mouth, bruise on his jaw darkening, poncho, hat and gunbelt on the bed, the papers regarding the Bertozzis’ inheritance and other papers covered with figures scattered all around him on the table and the floor.

“Boring.” Mortimer surveyed Monco and the surrounding clutter. “Make yourself at home, boy.”

Monco ignored the sarcasm. “Filippo and Lisa’ll be all right after tomorrow. The vineyard is theirs by right. And we’ve got sixty-eight thousand dollars to invest.”

“We? Sixty-eight thousand? There’s nothing to discuss, the money’s all yours.”

“The partnership’s operative again, or are you losin your memory, old man? I returned the robbery money to the El Paso bank and pocketed the reward. Forty thousand, plus the twenty-eight thousand for Indio’s men, adds up to sixty-eight. Thirty-four apiece.” He held a hand up to stop any objections and went on. “I’ve retired, but might need a little advice on what land to buy with my share. And once I’ve bought land and cattle, I might need a neighbour I trust.” His eyes locked into Mortimer’s, coolly appraising. “Or we might buy a bigger place together.”

“You’ve given this some thought, haven’t you,” Mortimer said slowly.

“You might say that,” Monco replied abruptly. “In Agua Caliente you said, _Maybe next time_. Now is next time. And you need someone to watch your back.” He stood up, started unbuttoning his shirt. “You got until tomorrow to make up your mind.” He sat down again and started pulling his boots off. “If I leave you enough time to think, that is.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Mortimer took a couple of steps forward, pulled the other man up on his feet and started undoing his belt. “And don’t worry about your spoiled looks. I’ll keep my eyes closed.”

* * * * 

It was early afternoon and the mood around the restaurant table was moderately cheerful. After an enjoyable meal, Monco, Mortimer and the Bertozzis were drinking coffee. Judge Hollister had declined their invitation and had left in his buggy. The sheriff was taking care of all the convicted men. 

“Only two years in the State Penitentiary,” Filippo grumbled, not for the first time. “And his men must only pay a fine.”

“The judge said they have already been punished enough,” Lisa pointed out, her eyes moving between her husband and Monco.

“And further action was deferred,” Mortimer added. 

“What does that mean?” Filippo frowned.

“Means that the judge’s lettin us get away with all that happened in Caldwell’s office,” Monco informed him, apparently unaware of the glances the young waitress kept giving him as she refilled his cup. “You goin to settle the bill, Colonel?”

Side by side, Filippo and Lisa watched Monco and Mortimer get ready to leave town. Monco secured his saddlebags and bedroll, checked the cinches, and then, as something occurred to him, turned towards the Italians.

“What’d you do with the bulls?”

“In the stable at the vineyard,” Filippo said proudly. “We keep them. We give them names of Italian heroes: Mazzini, Garibaldi and Pisacane.”

“My uncle had a . . .” Lisa bit her lip searching for another word, swiftly leafed through the last pages of her notebook. “Sideline. He and the bulls . . . helped the ranchers and the farmers. With the cows. You know.”

“Not directly, ma’am,” Monco said, turning to mount up. “Good luck to you, and to the bulls.” 

“Please wait a moment.” Lisa’s voice was gentle but determined. “You and Mr Mortimer have done so much for us, and we don’t know your name. We would like to know it.”

Monco reflected for a second. “All right. Make it Baxter.”

“We will always be …beholden to you, Mr Baxter,” Lisa said softly, her smile so much like Ellen’s. “And to you, Mr Mortimer. Good luck to both of you.”

Mortimer shook Filippo’s hand, bowed to Lisa. “Thank _you_.” The Italians glanced questioningly at each other and then at him. He shook his head, swung up on his horse and gazed at Lisa for the last time. “Long story. Take care of yourselves. Good-bye.”

They rode out of El Paso, heading north. After a couple of silent miles, Mortimer gave Monco a long sideways look. “Baxter?”

“I met a family called Baxter a year or so ago.”

“Must have been quite a family, for you to want to use their name.”

“They were. I may tell you about them some time.” They rode on another half a mile, then Monco spoke again, staring straight ahead. “In case you don’t remember, now is tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Mortimer decided to stare straight ahead as well. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t gone anywhere.”

Monco tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a little grin. “You realise that I don’t have a specific place in mind. Lookin round may take weeks, maybe months.”

Mortimer gave him another sideways look and shrugged. Life could be precious if its only purpose was to track and kill a murderer. But it could also be precious because it was short and unpredictable, and not too unpleasant if you had a friend beside you, willing to watch your back. Mortimer turned towards his partner, smiling: “I can wait.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. In English-speaking countries, the spelling "Manco" is more frequent. I have used the original Italian spelling "Monco".  
> 2\. All my thanks to Timberwolfoz for her careful editing, to Linda and Kees for their usual patient advice with Americanisms, and to Stephantom for her warm encouragement. May this fandom grow exponentially.


End file.
